


Who's Gonna Drive You Home?

by LaVeraceVia



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alone Together, Awkwardness, Billy Needs...More Than A Hug, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Groin Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Steve Needs a Hug, two lonely boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVeraceVia/pseuds/LaVeraceVia
Summary: “Steve,” she says again, with more urgency, and now he’s sure it’s Max. “I need your help.”Steve’s pulse goes into overdrive. “Max, what’s wrong? I can get Hopper- ”“No!” she cuts him off, talking fast. “No cops. There’s no time and, and…it’s so cold out there and—and there’s just no time okay? You have to trust me. Please. You know the road I live on? I need you to come here now, but DO NOT stop at the house, just keep driving past it, but come as fast as you can and…” she hesitates “And—you’ll know when you see. You’ll understand.”





	1. When It's Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> So this fandom pretty much took over my brain and then this fic was basically like, "yeahhh you're gonna write me." And then suddenly it was November and I was writing Harringrove fic for Nanowrimo. Yeah, I dunno. Fic is unbeta'ed. 
> 
> Title from "Drive" by The Cars:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuZA6qiJVfU
> 
> (The author recommends you listen for ALL the shipper feels)

Late January, 1985

 

The phone’s ringing when Steve gets in the door. He doesn’t run for it right away, taking the time to knock the snow off his boots at the threshold. It’s been a long day of driving, ferrying the kids to Valparaiso and back for a D&D tournament. That’s Dungeons and Dragons, for the uninitiated, and Steve is now officially very, very initiated. So initiated, in fact, that the experience, plus the five pre-teens who had been squeezed into his car for hours, high on victory and SweeTarts, have sapped whatever energy he might have had to make a run for the phone. Anyway, that’s what the new answering machine is for.

 

He hears the tinny, pre-recorded “ _You’ve reached the Harrington residence, we’re not able to come to the phone right now…_ ” start in the kitchen, but there’s no response after the beep, just a busy signal. Dead line. Caller must’ve hung up. He shrugs. Just as well; he has a date tonight with the couch, and the remote, and some popcorn, and a movie: any movie, so long as it’s guaranteed to induce total mental oblivion (Steve’s brain is really, really freaking tired okay), and well, Steve’s never stood up a date in his life. No sense in starting now. 

 

His parents have a huge VHS collection—more than 200 movies in total, and Steve’s been systematically working his way through all of them over the course of weeks.

 

He doesn’t sleep so great these days, is the thing. And his parents are traveling (again), and it’s not exactly like there’s anyone else to spend his nights with, these days. It’s a Saturday, so there’s probably at least two hopping parties in town, but Steve’s not much for parties either. These days.

 

That’s the thing—it’s like someone’s drawn a thick black line through his life, dividing it into two parts: Back Then and These Days. Back Then was overrated, full of facades and falsehoods he told himself; he knows that now, he gets it. And These Days are full of truth, but emptier for the fact. It’s a thing Steve doesn’t like to think about if he doesn’t have to. So he spends a lot of time distracting himself, mostly with the care and feeding of preteens. And target practice. Lots of target practice.

 

He’s fine. He’s fine. Steve just…didn’t think his life would turn out like this, is all.

 

He mentally shakes himself. _Snap out of it Harrington._ So: movie. Revenge of the Nerds, he thinks. Seems appropriate, especially today. His ass has just made contact with the sofa and he's on the verge of making consecutive movie night #48 a reality, when the phone rings again, too close to the last missed call to be anything but the same person calling back. Steve rolls his eyes, simultaneously fond and annoyed, mentally betting with himself which kid left something in his car. Smart money is on….

 

“Dustin, whatever it is, can it wait until tomorrow? It’s freezing out, and I’m not driving back across town because you left your twelve-sided dice or whatever in my c- ”

 

“Steve?” The voice is quavery with fear, and familiar, but not immediately so. Too high-pitched to be Dustin or one of the other boys, whose voices have all started to drop into the lower registers of puberty. 

 

“Max?” He asks. “Is that you?”

 

“ _Steve_ ,” she says again, with more urgency, and now he’s sure it’s Max. “I need your help.” 

 

Steve’s pulse goes into overdrive. “Max, what’s wrong? I can get Hopper- ”

 

“No!” she cuts him off, talking fast. “No cops! There’s no time and, and…it’s so cold out there and—and there’s just no time okay? You have to trust me. Please. You know the road I live on? I need you to come here now, but DO NOT stop at the house, just keep driving past it, but come as fast as you can and…” she hesitates “And—you’ll know when you see. You’ll understand.”

 

There’s background noise, someone else talking, and Max responds, the sounds muffled by something, a palm over the speaker maybe. When she comes back, her voice is even more frantic. “I have to go, just. Please. _Hurry.”_ The line goes dead.

 

Steve doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even hang up, just drops the receiver and bolts, reflexes honed by a year of living with paranoia and the paranormal. He’s back behind the wheel of the car and making for Max’s before he can even begin to question the wisdom of not calling Hopper for backup. Besides, experience has taught him that if this has anything to do with the strangeness that calls Hawkins home, he and Jim Hopper will end up on the same path anyway. Still, Steve sends up a prayer to a God he’s not sure believes in that this isn’t paranormal. _Please, just no monsters from another world._  

 

What he finds on Max’s street will make him think maybe otherworldly creatures wouldn’t have been so bad after all.

 

He coasts once he turns down her road, driving slow for the better part of a mile, but he doesn’t see a thing out of the ordinary. Visibility is shit—there’s no moon out, and the falling snow obscures what little advantage the headlights give. He’s contemplating stopping to find a pay phone and calling the Chief anyway when he sees it. Or, rather, sees _him._

 

Billy Hargrove.

 

Visibility might be shit, but that blond mullet is unmistakeable. The jackass is about a hundred feet ahead, walking (stumbling) down the side of the road like it isn’t the middle of the night, and there isn’t a snow storm on. He’s hunched over against the cold, arms wrapped tightly around himself. The idiot isn’t even wearing a jacket.

 

“Dammit Max,” Steve mutters. He takes his foot completely off the gas. He did _not_ ask to get roped into wrangling Billy Hargrove. The guy pretty much tried to kill him back in November. Steve’s nose just stopped being sore last week, and now Steve’s supposed to…what? Just pull over and offer him a ride? No. Fat chance. Fuck that. He loves the nerds, but he did not sign up for this. He steps on the gas.

 

He’s not even going to look at him, not going to make eye contact when he drives by, but…Billy’s a one-man trainwreck and, like any good rubber-necker, Steve’s eyes are drawn to him as he rolls by. He’s staggering, barely able to keep his feet in the powdery, fresh-fallen snow. Steve swears. The guy’s drunk. Unbelievable. 

 

 _Look away Steve. Look. Away._ He tells himself this, knowing this whole thing can only bring trouble, but then, as if he can scent Steve’s indecision, Billy turns his head and meets Steve’s eyes. Spits.

 

“Shit.”

 

By then Steve’s rolled past him, but he can’t unsee it—Billy’s messed up face, the bloody glob he spits into the snow.

 

He’s not going to stop. He’s _not_. He’s going to go home, put on his cozy flannel PJs (that absolutely no one has, nor ever will see), turn the heat up, pop the popcorn and watch Revenge of the Nerds. Or Risky Business. Or Sixteen Candles (yeah, he likes Sixteen Candles, so what?). Or anything that will make him forget the sight of this disaster of a human being, bleeding and shivering in the snow, because the thing is, Steve would rather go home and prune his nose hairs than stop in the cold for Billy freakin’ Hargrove. Except.

 

He doesn’t have a coat on. _It’s so cold out there,_ Max had said. _You’ll know when you see._

 

And there was so much blood on his face. (Probably not any more than Hargrove had beaten out of Steve’s face that night in the Byers household though). And that settles it.  SCREW that guy. He is not stopping. He’s NOT.

 

He glances one last time into the rearview mirror, just in time to see Billy go down.

 

And Steve pulls over.

 

Billy’s on his hands and knees in the snow with his head down, breathing heavy. But Steve knows from experience that just because Billy Hargrove is down does not mean he’s out, so Steve still approaches with caution. His face might have healed but the bridge of his nose still gives a ghostly throb at the sight of this guy up close.  

 

Steve expects to be met with derision and mockery. A mean smile and meaner words. But Billy’s not smiling now, not that Steve can tell anyway. He hasn’t even lifted his head. Still, the tight line of his neck, the way his shoulders go stiff—he’s definitely aware of Steve’s approach. 

 

Without looking up, he says, “Fuck off Harrington.” 

 

“Well gee, that would be great, I’d love to, seeing as it’s _twenty-two degrees out here_. But you’re on the side of the road, in the dark, with no coat, in a snowstorm, BLEEDING, and there’s a little girl who will be very upset with me if they find your dead body here in the morning, frozen in the snow, because I didn’t help. And this town’s seen enough dead bodies recently, and I’d probably lose some sleep, a little bit at least, even for a piece of shit _ass_ hole like you, and seriously, why do you gotta pick a fight with everyone you come across man and—oh. Oh shit. Don’t do that.”

 

Because Billy Hargrove starts— _fuck_ —he starts to cry. He slumps over, sinking to his forearms in the snow, hiding his face in the crook of both elbows and curving his hands protectively over the back of his skull. His shoulders shake with each hitch of his breath, barely audible, but apart from that he’s completely silent. The image is desperate and sad and achingly young and doesn’t fit the image he has in his head of Billy _at all_. It’s unsettling, and it's uncomfortable to watch, and it makes Steve want to look away, and maybe run away, and just…forget this whole thing is happening. But he can’t. Shit. 

 

How does this shit always happen to Steve?

 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Crouches down in front of the other boy. Thinks about resting a hand on his shoulder, but decides against it. Tries to sound like less of a jerk this time when he says, “Look…is there somewhere I can take you? Home?” Then he remembers what Max said— _DO NOT stop at the house_ —and amends hastily, “…or somewhere else you can stay for the night?”

 

Billy makes a harsh, ugly sound that could just as easily be a sob or a mirthless laugh. He puts a palm down, pushes up out of the snow, and lifts his head to look Steve in the face. Every thing about the motion looks painful, and when he meets Steve’s eyes, Steve knows why. Someone has _demolished_ this guy. His whole face is going to be a mass of bruises tomorrow. There’s an ugly cut bisecting one eyebrow. His cheek and jaw are scraped badly on the right side and the skin around his right eye is puffy and dark. His nose is bleeding, and the blood on his teeth could be from the nose or the split lip or more cuts inside his mouth; it’s impossible to tell. And that’s just the face. There’s no telling what kinds of injuries he’s hiding underneath his clothes. He’s hurting badly right now, and Steve knows from personal experience, he’s only going to hurt worse tomorrow. 

 

Someone finally gave Billy a taste of his own medicine. But the sight doesn’t give Steve any satisfaction. 

 

“Shit,” he says. At a loss. “Do…do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

 

“Just fucking leave me here Harrington,” he rasps, eyes glassy but defiant.

 

“There must be somewhere- ” Steve starts, but Billy cuts him off. “There isn’t.” 

 

Steve says “Not even...” but he lets the words trail off. He’d almost said _Not even Tommy?_ But he knows better. He used to be friends with the guy, he knows how he is. So no. Definitely not Tommy. Dammit.

 

And in this moment, Steve is so. Fucking. Tired. He doesn’t want to be here, dealing with this. Dealing with _him._ Billy is an asshole. He might even be a monster. But if Steve leaves him here, hurt and bleeding, in the snow, it’ll mean Steve is an even bigger monster. 

 

He makes a decision then, on pure instinct, and it’s probably a really fucking dumb one. So be it. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

 

…And that’s how he ends up bundling his arch enemy into the passenger seat of his Bimmer and taking him home with him. 

 

It’s not easy, getting Hargrove into the car. Steve doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t tell him where they’re going, just squares his shoulders and says, “Okay.” Then he moves to crouch beside the other boy so he can take his arm and throw it over his own shoulder and then quickly, before Billy can protest, he says “Alright, we’re getting you up. Ready? On three: one…two…THREE!” and with no more warning than that, levers the other boy to his feet. 

 

Billy lets out a sharp noise of pain when they rise, just barely keeping his feet. His body falls heavy against Steve’s and the two of them stumble together, Steve doing some quick shuffling to keep them both from going down. _How’s that for planting my feet, jackass?_  

 

“Okay, let’s just get you to the car,” Steve grunts, as much for his own benefit as Billy’s. He’s already out of breath (Billy is freaking _solid_ ) and the distance between the two of them and the car seems to grow with every step. It doesn’t help that he’s taking the majority of Billy’s weight, half-carrying the other guy. Billy is still bent over, clutching at his lower belly with his free hand, a hand that’s covered in blood, Steve sees, and for a minute he worries that the other guy has been stabbed or something. Without thinking, he drops his hand down and presses it against the flat of Billy’s stomach to feel around for a wound, knocking Hargrove's own hand out of the way. The muscles are clenched tight underneath Steve’s hand, like he’s bracing himself, but there’s no blood, no open wound, and Steve snatches his hand back, embarrassed. But Billy doesn’t say anything.

 

He doesn’t say anything once they’re in the car and moving either, not even to ask where they’re going. Steve doesn’t have anything to offer, and uncomfortable silence hangs heavy and tangible between them. Then the deer steps out in front of the car.

 

It comes out of nowhere, just there all of a sudden in the middle of the road. Steve practically stands on the brakes to keep from hitting the animal. They don’t. Hit it, that is, but the car fishtails wildly and both are them are thrown forward _hard_. Billy’s not wearing a seatbelt, and he has to use both hands to stop his body from slamming into the dashboard. He cries out, a broken, pained noise and groans again when the car finally slides to a stop, leaning forward and cupping his crotch with both hands and _ohhhh_. It all makes sense now. The lack of color in his lips, the way he couldn’t stand up straight, the way he could barely hold his feet to walk to the car. He’s not in pain from a stomach injury—he’s in pain because someone’s nailed him in the groin. 

 

“ _Jesus Harrington,_ ” he moans, voice cracking. “Are you trying to kill me?”

 

“Sorry! Sorry!” And Steve is. Really, he is.

 

It’s a not a long drive, from Billy’s street to Steve’s house, but Steve takes it slow now, trying his best to avoid the worst of the bumps in the road. Because Billy might have deserved to get his ass kicked, but Steve wouldn’t wish a groin injury on (literally, in this case) his worst enemy. 

 

Billy’s so tense his shoulders are practically around his ears. He’s shivering, and Steve can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the cold but he can see the gooseflesh pebbling Billy’s skin from here, so he turns the heat up as high as it’ll go. 

 

“Just…hold on,” he says, and wonders, for the first of what will be many times, what the hell he’s going to do with Billy Hargrove.


	2. Things Aren't So Great

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrington brings Billy home with him like a fucking stray dog. Drags him inside and dumps him on the ridiculously overpriced couch in his ridiculously upscale living room, and then tears out of the room like he’s got hell on his heels, mumbling something about first aid kits. And Billy, he doesn’t say a thing. His insides writhe with self-loathing and a humiliation so deep he feels it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of throwing up/gagging, groin injuries described in moderate detail, mild suicidal ideation.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is very un-beta'ed my dudes.

Harrington brings Billy home with him like a fucking stray dog. Drags him inside and dumps him on the ridiculously overpriced couch in his ridiculously upscale living room, and then tears out of the room like he’s got hell on his heels, mumbling something about first aid kits. And Billy, he doesn’t say a thing. His insides writhe with self-loathing and a humiliation so deep he feels it in his bones.

 

Christ, he hurts. It alternates between a sick throb low in his belly and sharp searing heat in his balls, and it’s the worst fucking thing he’s ever felt. He closes his eyes and curls into the couch, presses his face into the cushions and tries to ride it out, trying not to think about how it happened. He’s cried once tonight already—fucking sobbed, right there in the snow on his knees in front of Steve Harrington, and the memory makes him burn with shame, makes him want to eat a bullet—and there’s no way he’s going to let himself cry like a little pussy again. But he can’t keep out the memories from earlier tonight that rise up inside his head and try to eat him alive. 

 

Since they’d moved to Bumfuck, Indiana, his dad had been quicker to anger, even more so than usual. Neil’s always been _generous_ with his fists, but he's worse now, ready to read every action as proof of Billy’s lack of respect, as an indicator of his supposed irresponsibility.

 

Billy’s been on his best behavior, taking extra pains to avoid pissing him off. He keeps his trap shut, not talking back. Doesn’t help. He fucking chauffeurs Max around with little complaint (at least to Neil's face). Doesn’t help. He picks up after himself, doing his best to leave no sign of himself anywhere in the house (other than his own room). Doesn’t help. Nothing helps. 

 

He’s started picking up extra shifts at Gordo’s, the garage he’d gotten hired at just outside of town. The pay is shit, but it doesn’t matter. It’s money and it’s his and it’s gonna get him out of here one day. He’s just gotta make it through the rest of this year, walk across that stage and get his fucking diploma, see the other side of eighteen, then he’s _gone_. He’s just gotta keep his head down until then. 

 

But he should have known. Keeping your head down never helped anyone. Sure as shit ain’t gonna help Billy.

 

“You’re fucking insane.” The words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. But he couldn’t help it. Billy’s fuse has been running short for a long time anyway—he spends most of his time feeling jittery and restless and pissed, like his skin’s too tight and he's going to split at the seams any minute. And then tonight Neil had all but kicked the door down, barging into his room to accuse Billy of stealing money that had _supposedly_  gone missing from his wallet. He’d lost his goddamn mind. It’s never taken much to set Neil off anyway, but now he’s full on making shit up. Billy might be a lot of things, but a thief isn’t one of them. And even if he ever thought about it, he knows better than to try stealing from his dad. He’s not that dumb. 

 

But apparently he is, because he’d just talked back to Neil Hargrove, cursed him to his face even. His father had given him that familiar look of high-handed disappointment, almost mocking in its intensity, like he was trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up with the satisfaction of being proven right: that yes, his useless son is indeed a piece of shit. Billy had known that look for what it was—a signal that he was about to be in for a whole world of hurt. 

 

That was nothing new though. Billy had learned a long time ago how to take a beating. How to clench his jaw and tighten his abdominals to mitigate the damage from a blow. How to roll with a punch, and when to take a convincing dive. And he’s long since mastered the art of going away in his own head, stepping back and letting his body go on autopilot until it was over.

 

But Neil’s on a rampage tonight, ready to tear through every defense Billy’s ever erected, and it goes on a long time. And it’s bad. Black eyes and bruised ribs and blood in his mouth bad. 

 

But Neil had made one mistake, in his anger. He’d forgotten to close the door behind him.

 

It had been Max, in the end, that saved him. Billy hadn’t seen her come in and neither had Neil, apparently. She’d shrieked, “Neil, _stop_! You’re killing him!” And when her voice, high and pleading, had broken through the sound of fists on flesh, they’d both frozen like that—Neil with his fist cocked back, ready to throw another jaw-ringing blow, and Billy, half-crouched, his arms covering his head.

 

His father had taken a break from beating the shit out of his own son to turn and utter a stern, cold warning. “This doesn’t concern you Maxine. Go back to your room. _Now._ ”

 

Billy could hear the threat underlying his words. He’d looked up to see Max’s stricken tear-streaked face, to see Susan wavering in the doorway behind her daughter, trying to pull Max from the room without actually entering herself. He’d seen by the look on Susan’s face that not only had she heard, she’d _understood_ , even if Max didn’t. And he'd wondered if she regretted marrying into his shitty excuse of a family yet. If she’d leave soon. If he’d get blamed for it when she did. Wondered how much hurt he'd be in for when the time came.

 

Maybe Billy should have been grateful to Max for trying, inexplicably, to defend him. Or maybe he should have been grateful for the brief reprieve she’d given him, time to gather himself before the next blow fell. But it all just made him hate her more—made him hate her and her fucking mother too.

 

Because _WHY_? Why should he be grateful? Because they’re here to witness his humiliation while Neil beats him down like a _dog_? Because Susan is stupid enough to be married to his father in the first place? Because she’s trying to protect Max now, when she’d known probably what Neil was all along? When she’d never lifted one fucking finger to help HIM? Because Max lives in a world where she can stand up to Neil and face no consequences while Billy lives in another world entirely? _NO._ Fuck that. Anger had poured through him, burning, swelling up inside, pressing at the seams. 

 

Because Max was wrong. His dad wasn’t going to kill him tonight. He was just going to _break_ him. He was going to hurt him until Billy begged him to stop, and then he was going to hurt him some more, until he was satisfied that there was nothing left of Billy except a weak, cowardly little bitch who would never, ever open his mouth in _disrespect_ again, who’d spend the rest of his life flinching at the sight of any man who bore even the slightest resemblance to Neil Hargrove. In the brief pause created by Max’s distraction, Billy could see it, the emptiness stretching out in front of him, becoming decades, a lifetime. It wouldn’t end when he got out. It’d never end.

 

That was why he had done it. Max had provided the perfect distraction, and Neil was looking the other way, and Billy hadn’t even thought, just acted, when he’d thrown that punch, cold-clocking his own father across the jaw, putting all his weight behind it. _Fuck you_ , he’d thought.

 

And so Billy definitely WAS that dumb after all. Because he’d been in enough fights to know when he was outclassed, and against his own father, even with the hardest sucker punch Billy could throw, he’d never stood a chance. Neil’s got two inches and twenty-five pounds on him, and the former Marine has, to the best of Billy’s knowledge, never lost a fight. 

 

Everything had screeched to a halt then. Max had sucked in a horrified breath and Susan had used the moment to pull her from the room. Billy could only watch as Neil placed a thumb to the inside of his cheek, inspecting the blood he’d found there. He’d worked his jaw back and forth experimentally, then lifted dangerously narrowed eyes to meet Billy’s own. And Billy had known he was fucked. 

 

The body blows had come hard and fast then, too fast to block, too hard to resist, and then Billy was on the ground and gasping, hurting. And that was where it usually ended, when Billy couldn’t stand (or, after he wised up in his later teens, when he’d learned to _pretend_ he couldn’t stand), but this time Neil had saved the best for last, and maybe he’d been aiming for a kick to the gut and missed, but Billy somehow doubts it and either way, it results in a pain like Billy’s never felt before, a pain that short circuits his body—like someone had threaded barbed wire through his balls and then dragged it right up through his gut.

 

And then it was over, and Billy had lain there and writhed and mewled and tried to remember how to breathe and thought he might die. At some point, he’d opened his eyes and realized with horror that it wasn’t over after all, because Neil was still there, standing over him, regarding him calmly. Coldly.

 

“If you try that again, I will end you,” he’d said. “Do you understand me?” 

 

Billy nods. 

 

Neil bends over a little, turns his head and gestures at his ear. “What’s that?” 

 

“Yes….s-sir. I.…u-understand you. _Sir_.” Those goddamn miserable words had felt like ashes in his mouth. Saying them was like another punch to the gut.

 

“What else?” God, would it never be ENOUGH? He’d clamped down on a sob.

 

“I’m s- ” He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He had to. He’d started again. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“Yes you are. But not as sorry as you will be, if that money isn’t back in my wallet by _tomorrow_. Do you understand?”

 

One last time. He could do this. “Yes sir, I understand.” And then it was over and he was alone. He’d lain there, and thought of never getting up again.

 

 _Get_ _up._ His balls and belly ached fiercely. He could barely breathe. He’d thought he might be sick. _Get up._ He couldn’t replace money he didn’t have, that he’d never taken in the first place. _Get. Up._ And he’d known then. He couldn’t stay in this house another minute. 

 

It was a fight to get to his feet, and once he was upright, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay that way. _Get out._ His knees shook and his vision wobbled at the edges and he could hear the sobbing sounds of his breath echoing in his head. _Get out._ He’d gone for his car keys. But they were gone. And then he’d realized—Neil had anticipated him and taken them when he’d left. Panic had howled through him, searing and terrible, and he’d sobbed desperately. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t _do_ this anymore, he couldn’t _—_ _Get out! Get OUT! Getoutgetoutogetout!_

 

And then he was scrambling, limping, breaking for the door, and he was outside, and stumbling, and it was bitter cold, and he _hurt_ , and it didn’t matter. He was never going back, even if he died out here. So what if he did? Maybe he should.

 

So he’d walked. And he’d walked. And he’d walked, losing all track of time. There was snow everywhere, and the world had gone quiet, almost peaceful, and all he could hear was the sound of his own pounding heart and he’d just kept walking. 

 

And then there were headlights, and he was on his knees, and there were footsteps, and then Steve fucking Harrington was there. 

 

“Fuck off Harrington,” he’d said. But Steve Harrington did not fuck off. 

 

And for just a split second, Billy had felt something like relief. 

 

Stupid.

 

Now here he is. In Steve Harrington’s fucking house, on Steve Harrington’s fucking couch. Lying here while his nuts and his gut and his head all fucking throb, with Harrington nowhere to be found, and this is his fucking life. He presses his face harder into the suede couch cushion beneath him, clenches his eyes against the throb. 

 

He must lose time, because then Harrington is there; Billy can hear him breathing somewhere close by, but he doesn’t remember hearing him coming back in. He opens his eyes and sees the other boy sitting opposite him on a coffee table that he’s pulled closer to the couch, elbows resting on his knees, silently watching.

 

He opens his mouth, means to ask Harrington if he’s enjoying the fucking view, but what comes out instead is is, “I think I’m going to puke.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Harrington informs him calmly, but he must not be as sure as he sounds, because he pushes a wastebasket up to the couch to sit by Billy’s head.

 

He’s right though. Billy doesn’t throw up, but he does dry heave over the basket for a solid minute. He realizes, somewhere in the middle, that there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him there so he doesn’t go rolling off the couch. When he finally stops gagging, he leans back, rolling his shoulder to shrug Harrington’s hand off.

 

“Fuck y- ” he starts, but is interrupted by one last gag.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, fuck me,” the other boy says evenly, and passes him a glass of water. “Now take a couple sips of this, and keep breathing though your nose, slow and deep,” he instructs. “The urge to ralph will pass. If you can keep the water down for a minute, you can have one of these.” He rattles an orange prescription bottle. “Percocet,” he clarifies, at Billy’s questioning look.

 

Billy clears his throat, tries to focus on keeping the water down. He wants that pill. “Look at you Harrington,” he says, hoping the other boy doesn’t notice the way his voice wobbles. “Holding on to the good stuff.”

 

“It’s uh, from when I had my wisdom teeth out over the summer,” Harrington clarifies. Like Billy gives a shit. But he doesn’t say so. Doesn’t say anything that might keep Harrington from giving him the goddamn pill, and when he holds his hand out expectantly, he gets what he wants.

 

He’d blame what happens next on a Percocet-induced hallucination, except he’s only just swallowed the pill, and it hasn’t even had time to reach his stomach yet.

 

“Take off your pants,” Harrington says.

 

Billy feels his eyes go wide, then narrow. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

 

Harrington winces, shakes his head a little and looks away. When he looks back, his cheeks have gone pink. “That, uh, that came out wrong,” he says, and holds up what looks like a fabric pouch with a plastic cap on top. “Ice pack. For your, um...” he gestures vaguely downward. “But it won’t work very well through uh, through your jeans.” 

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

 

“I’m really not,” Harrington replies. “Trust me, it’ll help.”

 

“I always knew you wanted to get my pants off, you big fucking queen,” Billy sneers.

 

Harrington’s cheeks go from pink to bright red. He shakes his head vigorously, and Billy doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen another human being grind their teeth before.

 

“Why do you gotta be such a fucking—” Harrington gestures spasmodically in a way Billy takes to mean “heinous asshole.” He stands abruptly. “You know what? Fine.” He drops the ice pack onto Billy’s stomach. “Ice pack.” He rips down a throw blanket spread across the back of the couch and lets it drop haphazardly onto Billy’s body. “Blanket.” And then he steps back from the couch. “I’m done. Take care of it on your own.” He goes to walk out of the room, then stops. Turns on his heel. Comes about halfway back, says, “You think I want to be here? Playing nursemaid to the jerk who tried to kill me? Screw you.” Then he turns to leave again.

 

 _No, please._ Billy can’t say the words. He’s never been able to bring himself to beg. But he needs….he needs to not be alone right now. _Please God._ Quickly, before Harrington can leave, he blurts, “Wait. How’d you know?”

 

Harrington turns back. Blows out an exasperated breath. Rolls his eyes. “How did I know you’d taken a shot to the 'nads? Well it was pretty obv- ”

 

“No, not that. How’d you know what to do? How’d you know I wasn’t actually going to upchuck?”

 

“Oh. Well, ‘cause the same thing happened to me, freshman year.”

 

Billy frowns, not sure he believes him. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he answers, moving closer. The furrow between his eyebrows starts to soften. “It was at a JV basketball game. State semi-finals. I was under the basket, jumped up to get the rebound, another guy went up at the same time, didn’t get as high, ax-handled me right in the crotch. It was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. Like the whole world was ending. And the worst part is, for that first split second after it happens, you don’t even feel anything, but you know it’s coming, and then BOOM. It’s like your balls have exploded backwards up into your own body, and it hurts SO BAD, and you feel like you wanna puke and scream and cry all at the same time but all you can do is curl up and try to breathe and hope you haven’t crapped your pants.” 

 

“Fuckin’ A,” Billy agrees. That’s _exactly_ what it feels like.

 

“Yeah, you think that’s bad?” Harrington asks. “Try having the whole thing happen in front of your mom, who then insists she has to drive you to the doctor, and accompany you into the exam room, and stay there for every single excruciating moment of the exam.”

 

Billy doesn’t think having someone who cares so much sounds that bad, but Harrington seems to have forgotten he was mad at him, and he doesn’t want to make him run off again. So he replies, “Hope your teammates kicked the other team’s ass for that shit.”

 

Harrington runs a hand through his ridiculous hair. “Yeah, it wasn’t the other team. It was your good pal Tommy H.” He huffs out a laugh and drops back down to sit on the edge of the coffee table again. “I’d been putting up a lot of points that night, and he hadn’t. He said it was an accident. I’m almost forty percent sure I believe him.”

 

Billy chuckles. He can’t help it. Maybe it’s the Percocet working already, because even though Harrington is telling a story about getting nailed in the balls, Billy had almost forgotten about the pain in his own….until his laughter jostles sore muscles, setting his belly and balls on fire again. His chuckle turns to a wheeze as he curls back onto his side, cupping both hands protectively between his legs. “ _Fuck_ Harrington, don’t make me laugh.”  

 

“Ouch, sorry,” Harrington says, sucking in a sympathetic breath. He leans down and picks up the icepack where it’s rolled off onto the floor. He holds it up so Billy can see. “It’s still cold. Do you wanna…” He kind of twitches his head sideways in the general direction of Billy’s lower body. 

 

At this point, Billy is willing to try anything. S’not like Harrington hasn’t seem him in less when they’re in the locker room together. It’s just a good thing he decided to wear underwear beneath his jeans today. He hesitates, but then nods slowly. “C-can you- ” then clamps his jaw shut when he hears the stutter in his own voice, flinching, sick at what a little bitch he sounds like. The thought of Harrington helping him take his pants off, or even just standing there watching while Billy is laid so vulnerable, makes Billy’s stomach cramp in ways that have nothing to do with any of the hits he’s taken tonight.

 

“What do you need?” Harrington asks, concern warm in his dark eyes. 

 

Billy rolls back onto his back, looking up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see the sympathy on Harrington’s face. It makes him want to punch something. Someone. 

 

He’s able to grit out, “I don’t think I can bend over.” And it’s true. Just the thought of getting up makes him feel like puking again.

 

Harrington gets it immediately, moving to the end of the couch to help pull off Billy’s boots. “Hey,” he says. “Just…if you get things started up there, y’know just, unbutton and lift your hips, then I’ll…pull from down here, and we can…”

 

 

The humiliation had started to ebb when Harrington told his story earlier, but now it’s back, burning hot in his face and chest, stronger than ever. Burning with the need to hit something (to _hurt_ something), Billy warns, “I swear to God, Harrington, if you even look at my junk, I’ll kill you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and left kudos and kind comments on the last chapter. I'm a terrible perfectionist, which kills my writing pace, so thanks for being patient with me as I ground this one out. Hope you guys enjoy. More to come!
> 
> I'm LaVeraceVia over on tumblr as well! Come rap with me about All The (Stranger) Things!
> 
> As always, feedback is love! <3


	3. When You Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So when Billy starts, “C-can you-?” and then has to look anywhere but at Steve or his own body before he can mumble, “I don’t think I can bend over,” Steve thinks he’s got it. What he’s really saying is, “Please help me. I’m embarrassed. But don’t be fucking weird about it.” 
> 
> So here goes nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character being held down, against his will, to keep him from hurting himself or someone else. Semi-consensual (read: consensual but stoned on pain meds) cuddling.
> 
>  
> 
> I...am not super fond of this chapter. It feels clunky and overly wordy, so my bad if any of that is glaringly obvious. But I've been sitting on this chapter for too long, and it was time to post it, 'cause it's not getting any prettier, so here it is. Fic is still, most emphatically, unbeta'ed.

After the chaos of last November, once his face had healed enough that he felt like showing it in public, Steve had made it a point to go out and buy an industrial-sized first aid kit. Seemed like a good idea at the time. He’s been in the bathroom for the last ten minutes on the pretense of retrieving that kit. 

 

Wait. That is—he IS actually in the bathroom retrieving the first aid kit, okay? He’s just…he’s just kind of hiding at the same time. And maybe also having a mild mental breakdown.

 

The thing is…he has NO IDEA what to do about the problem at hand. The problem named Billy Hargrove.

 

He _hates_ the guy. Or he did. He does. He wants to. Whatever. He just can’t reconcile the idea of the smirking maniac who stood over him and punched and punched and _punched_ until the world went black, with the image of the bruised, broken boy lying curled on Steve’s sofa right now. Something about seeing him like that, vulnerable and in pain, smaller somehow, makes Steve forget the maniac and see only the boy. And Steve doesn’t want to forget the maniac. 

 

Last November, after the smoke had cleared and he’d gotten the kids home safely, but before the excursion to buy supplies for that first aid kit, Steve had spent a week in bed: skipping school, hiding from the world, unable to explain what had happened to make his face look like that—lips and jaw puffy, nose swollen, eyes bloodshot, face a mass of bruises picked out in eggplant and shiny pink—and unwilling to show his face in public where people could _see_. 

 

His parents were gone (as usual, big surprise) and no one had called or come by to make sure he was alright, and he’d been alone and sore and scared and so screwed up in the head. Until that third day, when the doorbell rang. And there was Dustin, carrying a thermos of his mom’s chicken noodle soup and a bottle of aspirin and smiling that sunny Cabbage Patch Kid smile, and Steve had been so…so _relieved_ to see another person, to be thought of by someone else, that he’d almost cried right there in front of the kid. 

 

And Billy was the one who’d done that to him. So no, he doesn’t want to know Billy. Doesn’t want to feel pity for him. Doesn’t want to see him as anything but the monster that he is. 

 

And so here Steve is, sitting on the bathroom floor and trying not to scream into the hand towel, while he listens to the sounds of pained breathing that echo down the hall from the den and tries to figure out what to do. He idly considers the possibility of never leaving the bathroom again.

 

Then he thinks again about Dustin, standing on his doorstep that chilly November morning, holding out the bag with the soup and the aspirin, and grinning, helpful and open-faced and sweet. And he thinks about how, in that one moment, almost everything wrong in Steve’s world had been put right, and….well, what else is there to do? Steve stands up and sighs. 

 

Then, armed with nothing more than a waste basket and a first aid kit, he heads out to face the boy who used to be (who still is?) a monster. 

 

Steve has steeled himself for a battle (of wills, at the very least) but it quickly becomes obvious that that won't be necessary. Billy hasn’t moved from the spot where Steve deposited him earlier. He’s still lying there, curled up on his side with his eyes squeezed shut. Beads of sweat dot his hairline and his upper lip, and his body is still wracked with shivers. He reeks of sweat and exertion and something else, something familiar and unpleasant in a way that Steve can’t put his finger on.

 

Steve moves closer, staying just out of arm’s reach. Billy’s eyes are closed, but with the level of pain he must be in (Steve knows from unfortunate personal experience), there’s no way he’s actually asleep.

 

As if to prove him right, Billy opens hazy, pain-filled eyes to glare up at him. Then panic floods his face, replacing the suspicion there, and he gasps, “I think I’m gonna puke.” 

 

Everything happens in a rush after that—Billy dry-heaving over the waste basket, and cursing Steve, and dry-heaving some more—and in the chaos, Steve realizes he really can do this. He can stay neutral, business-like, just one guy helping another out, and everything will be fine. He can get through this.

 

Then Billy wobbles a little, clinging to the edge of the sofa as he gags miserably, and Steve doesn’t even think about it, automatically reaching out to grab Billy’s shoulder so he doesn’t tumble head first off the couch. 

 

When it’s over, Billy pulls in a long, shaky breath and collapses back onto the sofa. He wraps both arms back around his middle and just lies there, curled loosely into the fetal position with his eyes squinched shut. He’s not shaking anymore, but his skin is still pale, and there’s still no color in his lips. He’s the perfect picture of abject misery, and Steve wonders, full of an involuntary feeling that feels a whole lot like pity, who did this to the guy. 

 

A part of him almost itches to reach out and rub a comforting hand up and down Billy’s back. Push back the sweaty hair that's stuck to his face. Tell him that he’s going to be okay. 

 

 _Dammit._ This is what Steve had been afraid of. 

 

Anxious to find a way to help that doesn’t involve touching the other boy, Steve offers Billy the pain meds. Percocet always makes Steve a little loopy, but Billy takes them without hesitation. 

 

And it's all going okay. Weird, but okay. Then Steve gets tongue-tied and that all goes to hell.

 

It’s just a slip-up. Steve doesn’t meant to say it like that, _take off your pants_ , but he’s never been the most eloquent guy, and he’s nervous alright, and even though he tries to explain after the fact, Billy’s eyes go flinty and mocking. 

 

“I always knew you wanted to get my pants off, you big fucking queen,” he sneers. _You big fucking queen_. The words bang around inside Steve’s head, and embarrassment fills his body. Even his ears feel hot. 

 

He almost walks out then, so over this whole fucking night, so done with this asshole. So done with _everything._ But Billy calls after him. And there’s something in his voice that makes Steve pause. He doesn’t say the words— _wait, please, stay._ Steve hears them anyway. So he comes back. Settles back in, starts the process of trying to get Billy to let Steve help him all over again. It’s like holding out food to a starving stray— _here boy, it’s a cheeseburger!—_ but the damn dog just keeps biting your hand.

 

He tries to commiserate with him, telling the story of his own mishap on the basketball court freshman year, sparing no detail. And as he does, he watches that wary thing behind Billy’s eyes begin to soften, just a little. When Billy laughs, really _laughs_ , Steve thinks he might actually be on the way to navigating Billy Hargrove’s defenses. Thinks the two of them might just be able to get through this.

 

So when Billy starts, “C-can you-?” and then has to look anywhere but at Steve or his own body before he can mumble, “I don’t think I can bend over,” Steve thinks he’s got it. What he’s really saying is, _Please help me. I’m embarrassed. But pretend you don't see._

 

So here goes nothing.

 

He starts with Billy’s shoes, because shoes are no big deal, right? Steve pulls his heavy motorcycle boots with minimum difficulty, lets each shoe _clunk_ to the floor. And then he plays the next part very, very carefully. Because the jeans have to come off, to get the ice pack on. And no matter how you slice it, this is about to get awkward. _More_ awkward. Extra awkward with a side of awkward. (And really, why did he think this was a good idea?)

 

“Hey,” he says, speaking slow, in what he hopes is a soothing tone. “Just…if you get things started up there, y’know just, unbutton and lift your hips, then I’ll…pull from down here, and we can…”

 

 

So of course Billy cuts him off with, “I swear to God, Harrington, if you even look at my junk, I’ll kill you.”

 

This fucking guy. Does he _really_ think Steve wants…? Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Yeah man, that’s it. That’s why I went to all this trouble. I’m not trying to actually help you or anything, I was just hoping to _look at your junk_.” 

 

Billy turns that blue flame glare on Steve, full force. “Well, you look like you mighta seen one up close before, s’all I’m saying.” 

 

Seriously, _why_ does this shit always happen to Steve? 

 

He feels the anger rising in his throat again. “What the hell is it you want from me, Hargrove?”

 

Billy pushes up onto his elbows. “I don’t want _shit_ from you Harrington, haven’t I made that clear?”

 

“That’s not—what do you want me to say man? What would keep you from being such a dick all the time? I’m here, I’m trying to help, and you just keep pushing. From the very first moment I met you- ”

 

“Oh _yeah_ , Saint Steve. Such an angel, helping some asshole gutter trash, out of the goodness of his heart.”

 

“I never said- ”

 

“You wanna know? You really wanna know? _Nothing._ Nothing will make me be nice to you," Billy hisses through clenched teeth. "Nothing will make me trust you. Nothing will make me believe you’re full of anything other than _bullshit_ , pretty boy.” 

 

 _Bullshit_. Of all the fucking words, it has to be that one that comes out of Billy Hargrove’s mouth. It makes Steve’s blood boil. Which is the only excuse he has for what comes out of his mouth next.

 

Deliberately, he marches back around to stand by the side of the couch, leans down a little so he can say it in the other guy's face. “So, who was it Billy? Who did this to you?”

 

“Why do the fuck do you care Harrington?”

 

“Maybe…” _Don’t say it Steve. “_ Maybe I want a name so I can buy them a beer,” it’s Steve’s turn to sneer.

 

That familiar crazy edge flares back to life in Billy's eyes. “Yeah? That’s  _great_ ,” he spits. “I’m sure my old man would appreciate that. The two of you can commiserate over how much you fucking hate me. Raise a glass to what a piece of shit I am.”

 

Billy says more, a profanity-laced tirade spilling from his lips, but Steve stops listening after he hears “my old man. _”_ Everything inside Steve goes into free fall. Is it possible to experience regret so immediate and strong that it causes you actual physical pain? According to his twisting stomach, the answer is _Yes_. 

 

“W-why would your dad…why would he…?” Steve shakes his head, moves back out of Billy's air. He doesn’t have the right words. He doesn’t think the right words exist.

 

“Take your pick,” Billy spits. “‘Cause he hates me. ‘Cause he likes the way his fists feel against my face. ‘Cause he thinks I’m a FAG. Or, hey, this time, THIS TIME it was because I supposedly took money out of his wallet. Except I didn’t touch his fucking money. 'Cause I'm not a thief!” He turns his face away from Steve as the corners of his mouth start to wobble.

 

What is there to say? _I’m sorry your dad’s an abusive jackass who probably turned you into an abusive jackass_? Yeah, no. Not helpful. What would be helpful, exactly? Not a lot. At least, not anything that Steve can do. Except.

 

“Billy, I…I am so sorry man. I shouldn’t have said that.” He puts a hand on Billy’s shoulder, squeezes just a little, trying to communicate with a touch how sorry he is, but Billy throws his hand off.

 

He sits up, puts his finger in Steve’s face. His eyes are angry and wet, dark lashes gone spidery with tears. “Do _not_ fucking touch me Harrington!”

 

Steve puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I’m sorry, okay? I get it- ” 

 

Billy shoves him back violently. “You don’t get shit!” Steve goes over awkwardly, coming up hard with one hip against the too-close coffee table, just able to catch himself with one hand on the flat surface so he doesn’t go sprawling. 

 

“Don’t do that,” he warns, straightening, but either Billy’s beyond hearing, or he just doesn’t care, because he strikes out at Steve with a wild punch. Steve dodges and Billy’s fist glances harmlessly off his shoulder, but he’s already winding back again, and okay, this is NOT happening. Steve might have fucked up, but he's not about to play punching bag to this guy for a second time.

 

He goes for Billy, grabbing at his arms, not trying to fight him, just trying to restrain. “Stop it! _”_ he barks. 

 

The other guy is weakened by his injuries and exhaustion, but he’s still strong enough that it’s hard to subdue him. They grapple unsuccessfully, each able to grip the other’s arms and do little else. Until it occurs to Steve to get behind Billy for leverage. He moves quickly, getting a knee in the couch, right behind Billy’s tailbone, and wrapping his arms around him so he’s locked in a bear-hug. Billy lets out a roar of rage when Steve forces him to cross his arms over his chest, but Steve’s got the upper hand now, and no matter how Billy twists, he can’t get free. But Billy STILL doesn’t stop fighting. He’s in the throes of something, out of control. Lost.

 

“Billy stop! STOP! You’re going to hurt yourself!” He speaks close to the other boy’s ear, nearly getting his nose bashed in for his troubles when Billy tries to reverse head-butt him. _Alright, that’s it._ He throws their combined weight sideways, turning their bodies so Billy’s pressed face-first into the back of the couch, almost fully immobilized. Billy continues to buck and thrash, growling wordlessly, but Steve just holds him there, pressing the full weight of his body against him, and eventually, _finally,_ Billy runs out of steam. 

 

Billy turns his face to the side, cheek pressed against the suede, to suck in big, heaving gasps, and Steve presses his own forehead to the other boy’s temple to hold him still, in case this is just a ploy to try his little head-butting trick again. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs into the his ear, “Let it go.” Billy doesn’t move, but his whole body vibrates underneath Steve like an engine idling at a stoplight. 

 

Steve lifts his head and takes a deep breath of his own, trying to stave off his own fatigue, waiting him out. Pressed so close like this, their bodies touching from shoulders to knees, Steve can’t help but once again inhale Billy’s scent. He smells of the same things from earlier in the evening—sweat and exhaustion and that strange familiar note Steve couldn’t place before. Suddenly it hits him. Steve recognizes that scent for what it is— _fear_. 

 

Human fear has a very distinct smell—musky and bitter at the same time, sharp in the nose—and it’s one that Steve is well acquainted with. It’s a scent that takes him back to the close press of bodies on a derelict school bus, to the sight of monsters with faces from Hell, to the feel of otherworldly vines squelching under his feet in darkened tunnels. He can’t believe he didn’t recognize it earlier.  And now, he realizes, Billy’s smelled that way all night. _Shit._

 

“Easy,” Steve whispers, one last time. He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m…I’m so sorry I said what I said. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. And it’s okay—you don’t have to trust me. But you can, if you want to. I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t even have to stay here if you don’t want to. I have a friend who’s a cop, I can call him and he can come and take you- ”

 

“No, no cops,” Billy pants out around a throat full of gravel.

 

“He’s a good guy, I swear, and he can take you somewhere safe.”

 

“No cops,” Billy repeats. Steve can hear the plea in his voice.

 

“Okay, no cops,” Steve echoes. “I’m going to let you go now. Please don’t try to hit me.” He feels more than sees Billy nod his head, and he takes that to (hopefully) mean _okay I won’t_ and not  _just you wait_.

 

Billy doesn’t even move when Steve releases his arms.

 

“Okay,” Steve says again. “I’m going to leave you alone now. You can sleep here. Bathroom’s down the hall. We’ll…we’ll figure out the rest in the morning.” But even as he says it, Billy’s body is softening against his, sagging bonelessly between him and the couch. “Billy,” he says. There’s no response, and Steve gets a little scared then. He pulls Billy back against his own body again, jiggling him a little. “Billy?” 

 

“You break it, you bought it,” the other boy mumbles. 

 

“Billy…” Steve says, at a loss.  

 

“I’m s’posed to trust you. Isn’t that what you said?” Billy’s body shakes once with what might be a silent sob.

 

 _Well, shit._ “Yeah...that’s what I said,” Steve answers, making a decision. “I’ve got you.” He moves back carefully, keeping an arm around Billy, situating him firmly in the vee of Steve’s legs, so they’re sprawled together along the length of the couch. Billy reclines back against Steve’s chest like it’s nothing, like they hadn’t almost come to blows a few minutes ago, like Billy hadn’t spent the better part of the night slinging accusations and insults over far less than the touch they’re sharing now. Must be the Percocet finally kicking in. 

 

Billy presses his palms over his eyes, “Everything is so fucked up right now, Harrington. What am I gonna do?” 

 

And Steve doesn’t know. “We’ll figure it out in the morning,” he says. 

 

Later, Billy will say (slur, really), “Hey, check it out, Harrington. Everything’s still in one piece.” And Steve will look down as directed, to see Billy thumbing the band of his briefs away from his waist, casually inspecting the goods. Steve will catch the glint of dark gold pubic hair before he glances away sharply, and he’ll think to himself, _yup, Percocet’s kicked in._

 

Later, Steve will carefully slip out from behind Billy. He’ll find the first aid kit and finally put it to use. He’ll clean the blood off of Billy’s face and spread antibiotic ointment over all his cuts and smooth a butterfly bandage over the split that runs through his eyebrow. He’ll refill the now-melted ice pack and lift Billy’s shirt and place it on the bruise purpling his ribs. He’ll flinch in sympathy when Billy hisses in semi-conscious pain, his abdominal muscles going concave at the cold. He’ll finally push that sweaty hair out of Billy’s face. Billy won’t notice because he’s already ( _finally_ ) fallen asleep. He’ll cover him with a blanket and take up residence in the recliner with a blanket of his own, because Billy hadn’t wanted him to leave there at the end, and Steve won’t know if that only applied until he fell asleep or not, but he’ll decide not to chance it, just in case.

 

Later, he’ll reach for his anger, just to see what’s left, and realize that it’s all but gone, slipped away while Steve wasn’t looking. Steve will find he won’t miss it (mostly).

 

But right now, he’ll tuck his hands under his thighs, unsure what else to do with them, and lie there while Billy Hargrove uses him as his own personal recliner. He’ll inhale deeply, gratefully, and smell nothing but the scent of clean sweat and teenage boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and left kudos/comments! It means more than I can say. Your words make my day every time. 
> 
> As always, love is feedback, feedback is love! <3
> 
> I'm LaVeraceVia on Tumblr as well. See you there!


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